Darkly Sweetly Love
by PinkFreud
Summary: True love is full of pain. The worst kind of pain. But there is the fire, too, and the fire is a sweet one. Collection of Rumbelle drabbles and ficlets, alternating between Storybrooke and the Dark Castle
1. Chapter 1

His nails click along the walls of the Dark Castle. Rumplestiltskin does not sleep, he is restless. The darkness will always keep him awake. Without sleep, there is much more time. The thoughts that can be pushed away in daylight come spilling forward, demanding acknowledgement. Now, he has more time to think about her. These are not happy thoughts, they torment him. Belle is so fresh and new and beautiful, sweet and light—all forbidden things. Want burns inside of the Dark One's chest like a fire. It rampages and tears. Fear does not enter her eyes when she looks at him, only a disturbing kind of curiosity. Part of him wants to drive it away, but also to push, to see what it would take to finally set her screaming. Now that she is here, never has he felt so alone.

Belle dreams of Rumplestiltskin. The dreams come from a secret place inside some hidden corner of her heart: it compels her, this place, dark and glistening like onyx. She can hear him walking at night, pacing throughout the castle, the way he does when he grows tired of spinning. The footsteps wake her, leaving her with the dreams still lingering, with a desire that is dark and thick and smells like smoke and roses. Why, she wonders, why is the pull so strong? Why does she want him? Something must be wrong with her, she thinks in these quiet lonely moments when the air seems so much colder, when she wants to be closer to him in ways that she has only read about. Is it compassion? Empathy? Pity? Or does she love that darkness?

Why does she imagine what his his long fingernails would feel like against her skin and why does she hope that they would leave a mark? A heat lives in her now, simmering unchecked. It began slowly, even from the first moment that she saw him. It was partially this that made her agree to stay with him forever, and now that she has been here with him for some time, it has only grown. First it was a spark, then a flame. Now, Belle fears it might become an all-consuming blaze. She is certain that the Dark One feels it too, she thinks she has seen it in his eyes when he looks at her, in the rare moments that they touch-but he locks it away, along with everything else that is human or painful.

He is pacing in the hall one night, and Belle knows that he is there. She can hear the clicking of his nails against the stone walls. The darkness lets neither of them rest. Belle feels, this particular night, like not being a good girl. Good girls, she has been told, don't do what she is doing, now, as she slips her hand up underneath her nightgown, tentatively brushing her fingers against this secret place that aches. But she is beginning to think that _good_ is a relative term, or at the very least, a nebulous one.

She bites down on her lip and keeps exploring, moving her fingers in a circular motion. She has never touched her bare skin there before—but now she delves inside of her underclothes and her whole body trembles at the stimulation. Belle closes her eyes, and there he is, waiting for her in the darkness. Her hand moves faster, wetness coats her fingers and she knows that she is lost.

Rumplestiltskin stops outside her room, as he often does, and leans against the door. He can hear her voice, muffled sounds, soft whimpers. He thinks that he recognizes those noises, knows what they mean, and at first it takes him by surprise but then sends a torrent of heat along his skin, flames licking him from head to toe. He presses harder against the door, listening close.

She is not very discreet in her pleasure; she realizes that sound might carry, but she does not care. In fact, she does not think that she would mind if he hears her. She wonders what he would think if he did, or what he would feel. She hopes that he will be stirred, the way he has stirred her, coaxed forth all of this wickedness. Belle thrashes, moans louder, prompted by visions of his hands holding her still beneath him, the wide dark pools of his eyes searing into her. She belongs here, she is sure of it.

The Dark One is stirred, his cock is completely hard, pressing uncomfortably against his tight leather breeches. What is she thinking of, he wonders? _Not you, not you!_ shrieks that manic little giggling voice inside his brain. _Ought to go in there, just fling the door open, hear her scream pretty screams and cover herself; serves her right for being so naughty and making those pretty naughty sounds_. Rumplestiltskin digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand and turns away instead. He can't listen any more.

She makes him feel like he is bleeding. This is not a happy story.

* * *

In Storybrooke, he still does not sleep. Neither does she. Not well, anyhow. This place is strange, home and not home. But him, him she would know anywhere.

Mr. Gold looks different than the imp she had fallen in love with, but if Belle gazes close enough, the darkness in his eyes is the same—comforting and familiar. She has been living inside of a dream for years, kept locked away with nothing but walls and shadows but now she is awake, and she has found him, and she sees now that he has always been the realest thing in her world. Remembering him felt like oxygen flooding her starved cells. So long, she thinks, it's been _so long_. Her body, seeming to have been suspended in a kind of numb limbo, reanimates: she feels her bones, senses the boundaries of her skin. A beating heart.

And then, that heat, the pulse thrumming, a fire from another time, one that never died.

Now, they are back together, but Belle still cannot rest. It is all too hard to wrap her mind around, this first night, after she remembers her name, and his, after she tells him that she loves him, after he has wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. Now she curls under the blankets, the pillow almost too soft beneath her head. She closes her eyes and travels back to another world, a place they both once were, together, alone. He has given her a bed to sleep in, but she wishes that he would come lay beside her in it, finally, after all this time.

Belle can feel her body too much now, that pull, the lure of dark desire like velvet and wine and blood. It spills out from the core of her and she tries to release it, to make it stop. Down slides her hand, finding the edges and contours of herself—and then the place where she is most wicked, the place that wants him.

Mr. Gold hates being awake. A thousand thoughts swarm like insects. Something has carved out a place inside of him, a dead place, where nothing can live. But when he saw _her_ again, when she came back to him, a small burning light appeared there, a flame. He paces his halls, stopping outside the door to the room where Belle is sleeping, he hopes. She deserves a pleasant rest. He leans against it, listening for something, breathing, anything, wanting to feel her warm aura, be touched by it.

A gasp, soft. Crying? No, not crying. This is a different sound. A desperation. A want. He remembers. And this time, he can't help it. He opens the door. Very softly. There she is, pink lip between her teeth. Pale skin, dark hair, small lovely breasts, hand moving between soft thighs, a blur of color. Her eyes open, very, very blue. Gold waits for her to stop, yell, throw him out. She is still new and beautiful and sweet and light, and he is just as ugly as he ever was, probably more. She said that she loved him. After all this time, that still fills him with terror as much as fire.

Belle does not stop. She looks right at him, and he feels a strange energy move between them.

 _Tell me to go_ , he pleads silently.

The only sound she makes is a soft gasp. It feels like sin, and something roars to life inside of him, pushing the terror back, locking it away. He moves towards her very slowly.

''Please,'' she whispers.

He reaches out and puts a hand against her face, gently. She closes her eyes at the touch, then opens them. ''Why?'' he asks.

''I've missed you.''

Gold wants to believe that. Wants to believe it so much that he lets her take hold of his hand and press it against her, lets him touch her. And then, he is lost.

There is poison in this wanting. It causes an uncontrollable metamorphosis.

He feels like he is tainting her. Belle knows this isn't true. He draws some deep and hidden part of her up to the surface.

Her skin feels like petals. Rumplestiltskin is still afraid, but too selfish to care. And she does not mind. She has many wants, living like butterflies inside of her chest. Quiet, creeping, secret things. Insects and serpents and firelight.

This is the night that things change.

* * *

Belle is not shy. This does not surprise Gold. What surprises him is the fierceness of her love, her trust, the way she lets him possess her—the way she wants him to. She kisses him with a breathless hunger, full of clinging. She tastes like tea and daydreams, and something else underneath.

She wants him to break her open and find it.

He feels like ashes, black tar oozing and spitting—and lies. Bitter ones. Somehow when she touches him, Gold feels this all the more strongly. Because he knows he cannot be good. But he keeps on lying because that way, she will stay and keep touching him and trying to make him better.

Pretty lies. Really, that's what most stories are. And she loves stories.

This world has lots of books. And pretty clothes. Different from what she is used to, but Belle finds a new style. And she's good at pretending that they can have a happy ending and stay together.

The darkness is part of who he is, whatever he calls himself now—Mr. Gold, to everyone else, but to her he's always been Rumple—it holds him together. Belle has never known him without the monster. Though he looks and seems like a man now—normal skin and no manic giggling, among other things—she can still see it underneath. And despite all of her protestations and pretendings, the monster is her secret delight. She fell in love with the Dark One, after all.

Pretending is comfortable. Belle gets used to it, like her new clothes. Sometimes, Storybrooke feels like a dollhouse, like cardboard scenery. She longs for the Dark Castle, vast hallways and rooms and bottled magic. A place where they were alone. She would have stayed there forever, and it would have been _real_.

There are lots of games to play in this world, too. Things that make her blush when she reads about them, growing warm inside. It is she who asks if he will tie her up. She likes the feel of having her hands bound.

Gold knows this is a dangerous game—it stirs something, rattles it loose as he binds Belle's hands to the bedposts with silk ties, sees her naked and waiting for him.

He always starts very slowly, dark eyes full of deliberation. Hands trace over her skin, memorizing, It drives her wild, these slow touches. Then his mouth, tasting everywhere, kissing her neck, tracing his tongue over her earlobe, her collarbones, her breasts, lips closing over her hardened nipples. Belle loses herself in it. It feels like drowning, being at his mercy. It feels safe. She is suspended in time, the past and present blurring around her. She closes her eyes, and she could be anywhere. So long as she can still feel his hands on her skin, she is anchored.

''You're so beautiful,'' he tells her over and over again. Sometimes he sucks too hard, blood rushes to the surface of her delicate skin and makes a mark. Belle hopes that it will linger awhile. She whispers 'yes' and he lets his teeth scrape against her.

The feeling is sweet. Rumplestiltskin has never felt more powerful. He kisses her between the legs, but not before he just looks for a long while, parting her with his fingers, watching that silken pink flesh grow wetter, then finally tastes.

Then, she flies.

Books don't teach you everything, all the pretty words in the world couldn't prepare Belle for this, for the way his tongue moves against her. She twists, pulls on her bonds. But she can't escape, and she is glad.


	2. Chapter 2

Mornings, early mornings, those are her favourite times in the Castle. Belle finds a surprising contentedness when she opens her eyes to her new home and its many mysterious rooms. She likes light and air on her skin, and possibilities. She likes setting to her work, there is a unique sense of purpose in it. And then of course, there is _him_.

He disappears sometimes, going to hide in some closed-off room and work his magic. She does not ask what he is doing, with whom he has made a deal. It is better if she doesn't know. But still, Belle can be certain that at some point during the day, she will see Rumplestiltskin, and her heart will begin to beat a little faster and she will feel that funny squirming feeling low in her belly. She likes that feeling. And this is why she likes mornings, because that is when the waiting begins.

She gets up and gets dressed and gets started with her chores. There are lots of rooms to clean. Belle hums to herself. It's not a song that she remembers from anywhere, it's one that she's making up as she goes along. Finally, he appears, and she tries to hide the smile that leaps to her lips.

Rumplestiltskin hates mornings. There is too much blasted light in the world. Light blisters. It illuminates. And he likes things to stay hidden. The girl, she's brought too much brightness with her. It makes his skin ache, makes him want to claw at it. This morning, she's wearing that oh-so-fetching blue dress, the one that brings out her eyes. He tries not to stare at the way the bodice pushes up her pert little breasts. It makes his mouth dry.

She's always so damnably cheerful, and he wonders why. Why she's not weepy and silent and miserable. She hums to herself, and now and again he catches the glimpse of a little smile playing around her lips. He wants to grip her by the shoulders and give her a long, bruising kiss, kiss that smile away. Surely, she would not be so cheerful after that. This thought makes him feel rough and sick and strangely hot.

Now the little chit is up on a ladder, tugging at the heavy curtains that he's nailed over the windows, scolding him for not letting enough light in. He's already let too much light in, he wants to tell her, but he doesn't. She's struggling, yanking stubbornly at the drapes. She's going to fall if she's not careful, he can see the shifting of her body as she loses balance. If he had any sense, he would let her fall. That would show her what kind of a man he is. Not a man at all; a dark thing with claws and teeth and malice, that's right, dearie. But, he just can't. She tumbles into his arms, a soft weight, and she does not scramble away, she lingers there, looking at him with flushed cheeks, looking too long and too deep. This feels very good, Rumplestiltskin realizes. He sets her down. The light is burning into him. He tells her he will get used to it, but that is a lie.

Belle plays it over and over again in her mind, the falling. Some part of her knows that she let herself fall, just so that she could land in his arms.

Later in the day, she is tired from working, and her mind is fuzzy with the beginnings of what might be love, lightheaded with the sense that she is still in midair, somehow. She's dirty from cleaning for hours, so she fills the tub for a bath. The pins come out of her hair and it tumbles down around her shoulders. There is a mirror here in this chamber, she uncovered it and brought it in, because she does not fear her reflection, in fact it comforts her. Belle strips off her clothes and gives her naked body a long look. She wonders absently what Rumplestiltskin thinks of her, the parts that he has seen, and what he would think if he could see the rest of her.

She knows that he hates his own reflection, that he believes himself to be much uglier than he is. He isn't ugly, not to her. He's fascinating. The shimmery green-gold of his skin, the enormous dark eyes. It's alluring in a very dark and very primitive way, a way that makes her ache deep down inside, makes her want to touch him. Makes her want him to touch her. Belle gazes into the mirror and wonders what his hands would look like against her skin, and the thought makes her squeeze her thighs together, because she's suddenly all tingly between the legs.

She's left the door open, absent-minded daydreamer that she is. Steam and heat slides out between the cracks. Rumplestiltskin moves to shut it, but then temptation gets the better of him, and he lets his eyes wander to the space where he can see into the room. He sees the mirror, it's at an angle that allows him a cruelly perfect view of her, long flowing hair over her shoulders, tiny perfect breasts capped with rosy nipples, slim waist, soft dark patch at the juncture of her thighs. Such a beauty. It sets something inside him screaming.

He scurries away, quietly down the hall. Then sits at the wheel, spinning, spinning, spinning. He can't spin the image out of his mind, even if he works until his fingers are raw and numb. He closes his eyes. _She falls, he catches her, pins her beneath him, all that skin and light and beauty. His teeth drag over her, making marks. His hands close over her slim wrists like cuffs. He covers her with his darkness, fills her with it. She falls, over and over again_.

* * *

Pink lace, that is Belle's next favourite thing in Storybrooke, besides iced tea. Underwear and bras, all different sorts of pretty garments. She buys as many as she can. She brings them home and puts them on, staring at herself in the mirror, looking from several different angles, liking the way that the bra pushes up her breasts and emphasizes her cleavage. One lazy morning, she lays on the couch, wearing nothing but these, reading a book and humming softly to herself. Gold is somewhere, working on something. She wants to know what, and yet she doesn't. Not just yet. Because she knows the truth will break her heart, and this is not a morning for broken hearts, it is too bright and lovely, with the sun streaming in through the windows. She has opened the curtains enough to let the light fall across her half-naked body. This is how he finds her, when he finally returns.

Gold stands very still, in the doorway, just watching. Belle smiles up at him, catches her lip between her teeth, beckons him forward.

His fingers tear the lace. He is sorry and not sorry. He will buy her more. He likes the way she looks in them, of course, but he wants nothing hiding her from him. She lays out willingly beneath him with a soft sigh; she's told him that she likes the weight of him on top of her, likes to have him hold her down, because it makes her feel safe. She should not feel safe with him, Gold knows, and yet there is nothing that he would not do to protect her. He is a very dangerous man, and she has made him all the more dangerous. Just like that day, when he saw her standing there in hospital clothes with confused wide eyes and wild hair and his heart stopped, flipped, and then started again. _Sweetheart. Of course I'll protect you_.

 _Sweetheart, sweetheart_. He whispers it against her neck, as she arches and moans underneath his body. _You're safe_.


	3. Chapter 3

There are more books in the library than Belle could ever possibly read. _Her_ library. It is the best gift that she's ever been given, the most thoughtful, and if she wasn't in love with Rumplestiltskin yet then this seals the deal. She takes the huge room row by row, goes through with a hand outstretched, waiting for whatever will call to her. Some of the volumes that jump out at her are very explicit, very adult in content—the sort of material that her father would certainly not approve of. But she is not with her father anymore, she thinks with a smile. She can read what she wants.

Belle gets an education. Some of the books even have pictures in them, illustrations that make her face burn. There are lots of ways to make love, it seems, and some are quite imaginative. She was betrothed; thankfully no more. It was a relief to be rid of Gaston. How she was dreading being married to him, submitting to him on her wedding night. The thought makes a shudder of revulsion crawl through her, the idea of engaging in any of these activities with her former fiance turns Belle's stomach. But not the acts themselves, certainly, with the right person she is sure that they could be very enjoyable. She runs her fingers over the pages. She feels free, giddy even. Some part of her wants to come out to play. It does not have a name yet but it does behave like a 'proper' lady, whatever that is; it is filled with fire and mischief and it likes to be a little bit bad. Was it—she-this Other—always there, waiting for the moment to arrive when she could slip into the light?

Startled by a sudden sound behind her, Belle turns, sheepishly hiding the book when she sees him standing there, smirking at her. ''Doing some reading?'' asks Rumplestiltskin.

''Yes, um...'' the Other Girl is gone and Belle is left stammering a little, blushing. ''Just...browsing.''

He raises his eyebrows, holds out his hand, twitching his fingers and making a weird clicking sound. ''Hand it over. Let me see what's got you so fidgety.''

Hesitantly, she gives him the book, feeling stupid. He flips through it. ''Learn anything?'' he asks, seeming quite interested indeed. If she's not mistaken, the Dark One's voice drops lower, the way it sometimes does when it's just she and him, not so wild and high-pitched and theatrical. As if he wants to sound like an ordinary man when he is speaking to her.

''I...well...''

''Come now, something tells me that you're not so very innocent as you seem.''

Belle folds her arms. ''Is that how I seem?''

''Yes,'' he answers. ''But then again...'' He cocks his head to the side and studies her. ''There is definitely something...'' He moves closer to her and she stands absolutely still. ''A _curiosity._ '' Rumplestiltskin wags his finger. ''Funny thing, curiosity—it can lead you down some interesting paths. Places you might not be ready for.'' He glances pointedly at the book.

She scoffs. ''I think I can decide for myself what I'm ready for.''

''Indeed. But you have to realize that at some point there will be no turning back.'' His fingers reach out, almost, almost touching her and then not, as he steps away. He hands her the book.

It is so easy to be hurt, that's why hearts get ripped out and put in boxes, where they are safe and trapped.

Despite everything, love has always been Rumplestiltskin's weakness. A heart is something worth keeping inside his chest, even if only just to punish himself, feel the knife dig in and twist. Locking his heart in a box just seems like the coward's way out.

Power and love, in the end that's what it comes down to, every action and decision a choice between the two, these two driving forces. Often they seem unable to coexist—they get in each other's way. There's power in love, to be sure, but you must endure the pain. He has often wondered if it's worth it. But he is a hopeless romantic at his core, filled with burning stinging shredding love.A heart is a terrible thing to have, to keep.

Belle's innocence is exotic to him. Not innocence of body, necessarily, though Rumplestiltskin is certain that she's still intact—he's heard her at night and knows that she is at least somewhat acquainted with pleasure—no, it's her spirit. She's not conniving. She is not a liar. She does not crave power, she does not use people as a means to an end. She would not break his heart this way, like Cora did. That was the last time he even entertained the possibility that someone might love him. People do not _love_ him, they need him, to give them something. It's all business. That's the only reason anyone calls his name. Belle does not need anything from him. If anything, she genuinely desires his company. He keeps thinking that there must be a catch. But no, she is just different, and this is why he is afraid to touch her, even when he thinks she wants him to.

She will break his heart another way.

* * *

Memory is a kind of compass, a series of impressions on her mind like a screen, all pulling in one direction, towards truth. But for twenty eight years the screen is blurry and foggy, the truth unreachable. Time drags, she feels like she is underwater. Being a prisoner, that is certain. That is all she knows. Belle closes her eyes, a day becomes a month, then a year, and it's always the same. Suspended, she does not even fight it.

Then things start moving, one day, all of a sudden. Someone opens the door, someone new. She gets up, confused. The eccentric stranger lets her out, with specific instructions. She goes. There is nothing else to do. And Belle feels a pull like never before, a sense that being a prisoner just might not be her only reality. The compass hand moves, twirls like a dancer. She opens another door, tentatively steps inside a shop full of objects that have belonged to other people, covered with memories of their own. Familiarity assaults her. So long, something whispers, it's been so long.

''All this time,'' he says, ''you've been _here_.'' Something in his eyes upsets the balance of her world, the compass spins faster. Yes, here. She's been here. She'll stay here for a little while longer, and then she'll be pulled away again, her mind like a chalkboard full of equations doused with water.

It is surreal beyond words to receive a phone call from a dying man who claims that she loved him. She doesn't know what to think, but her chest starts to ache like her ribs are prison bars and something is rattling against them, shrieking to be let loose. She can't help but cry. She hangs up the phone and sinks down into the bed and the smell of hospital linens. The nurse comes in and gives her another shot and for once she is glad when the fog pushes into her blood, feels relief when in reaches her heart. She closes her eyes, hears the words again. _Sweetheart, I'm dying_.

Gold doesn't like Lacey, even if she seems to like the dark side of him. This is not as appealing as it should be. It feels wrong and he tries hard to resist. But it's Belle, still, somehow, and he needs to care for her even though the taste of her mouth is different and there's a bitterness underneath. Dark and wild, she could be his, and then nothing would keep the monster chained. But it would be worse. Somehow, they wouldn't love each other. Not the same way. It makes him feel tired, tired and old. Belle makes him feel younger, stronger. His infirmity less acute. This is a conundrum. Lacey is aggressive; she climbs on top of him, rides him hard, and it is not satisfying.

When Lacey goes, Belle has another person's memories, yet not. She remembers making some strange decisions. The taste of cheap liquor and cigarettes. A particular shade of lipstick, garish. It appears as though one person can be two utterly separate beings, depending on the circumstances. The reality lies somewhere between the two, in a fluid gray place. Sometimes Belle still looks in the mirror and wonders if Lacey is still there, if she has always been there, the Other Girl, waiting for a chance to slip between the cracks, to come out and play. ''Was I a skank?'' she asks Rumple. Sometimes she can still smell the too-strong perfume.

''No,'' he assures her. ''You were just...different.'' He shrugs helplessly. She remembers the feeling of him in her mouth, his fingers in her hair, and she's jealous of the Other Girl, which seems bizarre. ''Did you _like_ her?''

It's a question that is difficult to answer and at the same time not. ''I love you.'' That is the safest and simplest and most honest reply. ''I like everything you are or have been or will be.'' Just to clarify.

She smiles. That will do.

Belle puts the lipstick in a box, shuts it tightly.


End file.
